Editor’s Letter; Things We Love; Megan Nicol Reed
Grace Jones never gets old, and I mean that in both senses. I first saw her perform when I was a tender 17, at a gay dance party in Sydney on New Year’s Eve. The party started at 10, and Jones was due to perform at midnight. Midnight came and went; then 1am, 2am, 3am … still no Jones. It wasn’t until 4am that she finally took to the stage. By the time she’d finished performing, sunlight was creeping through the cracks of the window shades. A couple of days later, my uncle, a very straight tax accountant, who managed the affairs of a lot of entertainers and promoters, came to our house. My mum asked him how his New Year’s had been, and he launched into a story about how he’d been fast asleep when the phone had rung about 11pm. It was Grace Jones’ manager, saying she was refusing to perform until she got paid. My uncle told her manager that Ms Jones would be paid after she performed, as per her contract. This tit-for-tat went on for a couple of hours, until my uncle finally got in his car, drove the Horden Pavilion to front Jones and tell her she needed to go on if she wanted to get paid. Somehow, he convinced her and I’m glad he did, because she pretty much blew the roof off the house that night.